Chapter Thirty-Seven
A half an hour later, once I'd promised I'd be back to go home with Marty - I mean, my mother - after the show was over, I left her there in the third row to watch the Boys finish out their concert. I had somewhere to go, I'd told her, somewhere important.
The bus stopped at the usual place, a half a block away. I still hated the way it smelled and the lady with the dog was on there, probably on the way home from where ever she used to go in the mornings when I rode the bus to Marietta. I climbed off and jogged to the corner through a rain that had started, splashing water into my sneakers and soaking my hair flat to my head. I reached the door knob on the cafe and stepped inside, my sneakers squishing on the runner rug that lined the way to the counter.
Kim was wearing black skinny jeans, purple high-top Converse sneakers, and a purple and grey striped shirt that hung off one shoulder, with her apron tied around her waist. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and a pencil was slung over her right ear. She looked up when the windchime hung on the door tingled, and her eyes widened in that oh shit sort of way. Joe was no where to be seen. She had no where to run. She waited at the counter while I squish-squished my way across the cafe. I stopped at the counter.
She hesitated, chewing her lower lip. She looked up at me. "The usual?" she asked.
"Yeah, please," I answered.
She turned and started pouring the coffee into the paper cup. She shook the nutmeg in, then turned back to me. "That'll be two-fifteen Stock Boy."
I pulled the money out of my wallet, put it on the counter. "You can call me Michael," I answered.
Kim looked up from the money. "Michael?" she asked.
I nodded.
I could see in her eyes that she was processing the thought, and I knew when she realized what it meant. Excitement flooded her eyes. "Michael?" she asked again.
"Yes?"
Her nose flared with excitement. "Is - is Michael married?" she asked.
I stared at her, a smile slowly spreading across my face as I lifted my coffee from the counter. "Not yet," I answered.
Kim's face broke into a grin and she leaped onto-and-over the counter. Luckily, I hadn't come to the cafe after coffee because I dropped the cup onto the floor in the interest of catching her as she fell into my arms.
Nick and the guys were still backstage with my mother when I got back to the venue later, having promised Kim I'd call her the next day. She'd gotten pictures with each of the guys and autographs all around and commanded Nick to visit the house next time he was in town so that she could 'fatten him up' ("Lauren would kill me, but I love home cooked food..." Nick had admitted).
It was the weirdest feeling, walking into the room because it was like being from two different worlds at once. I'd been called Kevin by the guys for a whole week (when you're amnesic, that's a long time to be called anything), and the other I hadn't seen in five years, yet she felt like home. She wrapped her arm around my waist and clung tight, like she refused to let me go incase I disappeared again. I was okay with that. I was okay with being held onto. I didn't want to disappear again.
"I guess this means we need to find a new stage hand to complete Rick's crew, huh?" Brian asked, looking at his feet.
"I guess so," I answered. "At least for a little bit." I glanced at Marty, who was still staring at the Boys with a bit of awe in her eyes. "I don't think this one here's gonna be too keen on me quitting anytime soon."
"You're invited anytime," Nick's words exploded from his mouth. He paused, "Even if you ain't Kevin. Or a pizza dude." He paused. "Remember when I thought you were the pizza dude?" he asked.
"Yeah, you were trying to shove Howie into the overhead compartment."
"Don't remind him of that," Howie hissed.
We all laughed.
When the laughter died down, though, an awkwardness filled its place. I hesitated. "I'm sorry, fellas," I said slowly.
"Why?" AJ asked, "What's there to be sorry for?"
"I got your hopes up... all of you... that I was Kevin, and -" I shrugged, "Well, I'm not."
"I think in a way it gave us some kind of closure," Brian replied, "In a weird way."
"We still dunno what happened to Kev though," Nick pointed out. "Not really."
Brian sighed, "Maybe we'll never know."
Nick looked at his feet.
"Nick," I said. He looked up. "He heard every word."
He smiled.
The next day I was at my apartment across from the cafe waiting for Kim's shift to end when the buzzer rang. I answered it to find a crew of guys delivering the white piano the guys had ordered in. The head of the crew handed me an envelope with a simple note from Brian saying that the four of them had talked and agreed that a pianist needs a piano, and they really had no use for it without a pianist on the tour.
Maybe you can finish that song now? he'd written, I mean don't get me wrong, I love the cliff-hanger ending but I really hope to hear what it sounds like now that the story's been completed.
When the crew had finished reassembling the thing in my living area, I sat down at the stool, opened a notebook, and wrote down the chords and notes that went into the piece. When I got to that last, hanging note, I stared at the keys for a long time, trying to figure out how to end it. My eyes traveled around the room, like looking at my stuff could glean some sort of inspiration.
Hanging on the wall in its frame was the CD. The supposedly blank CD, labeled simply Hold On.
Once, it had been a recording of the piece.
Hold On, I'd entitled it.
I closed the key cover, turned the page on the notebook, and wrote the following letter to Brian, Nick, and AJ:
I can't finish the piece.
The piece was never meant to be finished. It's not just my story, it's a story about anyone who has had a life that's encountered opposition, supposed understanding, a dark time, and a return to hopeful uncertainty. It's a journey, really, and the journey is destined to repeat itself in some form or another. For instance I've reached hopeful uncertainty but tomorrow a new obstacle will arise and I'll restart the journey. A different one, but one all the same. You've all lived the journey, too; so will everyone else.
It's unending, just like the song. Even when we die, the journey doesn't just end. I don't know what happens after, but I'm sure that it is a hopeful uncertainty. It is only right then, to end such a song on a hanging note.
And appropriately enough, the song is entitled Hang On. It's a beautiful irony, isn't it?
I tore the sheet out and slid it into an envelope, which I filled out with Brian's home address. I left it laying on the piano so I would remember to mail it. Then I went into the bathroom, opened up the cupboards under the sink, and pushed aside all the crap. I reached into the back, behind the U-shaped pipe, and got the mirror doors that belonged on the medicine cabinet. It took some struggling with the runner but I managed to get them back on. I stared into my own eyes in the reflection, studied my jawbone and my cheeks, which I now understood had been significantly altered now that I knew what I'd previously looked like. I met my own eyes - and there I was, those I recognized from before. I stared into them, searching them, reaquainting myself with, well, myself.
The buzzer echoed through the apartment, signaling the arrival of Kim now that her shift was over.
"Well Before Self," I said outloud, "Meet your After Self." I smiled, "He's an okay guy. You'll get along okay."
The buzzer rang a second time.
"Coming," I shouted, and I went to go let Kim up, turning off the bathroom light as I went.
After Self by Pengi
